Being & Nothingness
by rdrose
Summary: You are captured by a djinn and your fantasy world leaves nothing to be desired. Do you even want to leave? (Rating for self-destructive themes, language, and explicit sexual content. See trigger warnings inside.)
1. The Capture

**TRIGGER WARNINGS:** non-graphic depictions of self-harm, suicidal thoughts, and references to past suicide attempt.

 **A/N:** Please note that I am in no way attempting to romanticize self-harm or suicide, and if you're looking for a sappy fic where he finds out that the reader self-harms, professes his love to her, and saves her from herself, then you should probably look elsewhere. In my experience, that's not how it works in the real world, and I've tried to express that reality in this story. And while I am not personally triggered by stories of this nature, I recognize that it will most certainly be triggering to others, and I would advise them not to read. But writing this story has helped me work through my own personal urges, and I sorely hope that in posting this, others may take comfort in it as well.

* * *

It takes you little more than a few minutes to realize what deep, deep shit you've gotten yourself into. After all, your life never has been very peachy.

Waking up in a room with sunlight streaming in through the windows and onto your eyelids is your very first clue, before you even open your eyes. Your bed and the room that you've been sleeping in are the perfect temperature – the air around you is cool but not cold, and you're swathed in luxurious, comfortable blankets. And at this point, you finally realize what woke you – the smell of bacon cooking.

You really, _really_ want to enjoy this. You try to delude yourself into thinking that maybe you just got blackout drunk the night before and somehow made your way into a stranger's bed – a kind stranger who would wake up before you and, instead of fleeing, would cook you breakfast. _That would explain why I can't remember how I got here._ But no, that little thought is a mere fleeting fantasy as your breathing grows shallow and you are overcome with dread – because with a lot of effort (more effort than you'd usually be able to muster up before your morning coffee), you begin to recall where exactly you were last night. Or earlier this afternoon, rather.

 _It was just another goddamn case. Something was kidnapping people and shit – probably fucking vampires or something – and weren't giving them back. The boys were busy and you were going stir crazy being holed up in the bunker, having been put in charge of research and first aid after a recent… incident. They didn't tie you down and lock you up, but they didn't want you anywhere near their cases, it seemed – apparently, the boys didn't get the memo that you can have deep-seated personal issues and still be a damn good hunter. Hell, it's practically part of the job description. So, you just resolved to never tell the boys anything personal – like, ever again. You knew they were just trying to protect you, but they should know that practically locking someone up with their own worst enemy is just a little bit counterproductive._

 _So you decided to take a case: one that would have you stabbing things or chopping the heads off of some evil fuckers – or so you thought. Three people had now gone missing from a rural town in Pennsylvania, so you seized the opportunity for a solo hunt. You told the boys that you had some family business to deal with there (because giving them the location made what you were doing seem less suspicious, and just in case you needed saving, they'd know where to look – if they even cared enough to look, that is) so as to not bother them with more stress or worry._

 _You were afraid Sam's face would get stuck in that perpetual quirked-eyebrow-frowny-face thing that he did whenever you had a conversation with him. Every interaction between you and Dean consisted of you grumbling petulantly and him shaking his head and sighing for what seemed like several minutes straight. And whenever you saw Castiel, he gave you this weird, sad smile, like he doesn't know how they work or when to use them appropriately in social situations._

 _So, unbeknownst to the Winchester boys, you set off on your own toward Pennsylvania, following the GPS from the latest vic's phone to some barn on an abandoned farm. The barn had a cellar hatch, and you went to reach for it, and—_

You groan internally, pulling the covers up over your head as you try to stave off a panic attack. _Jesus Fucking Christ. Of course it wouldn't be vampires. Or werewolves. Or even demons._

 _Because that would be too fucking easy._

* * *

"I really don't think we've got anything to worry about, Sammy," Dean says, flipping idly through the pages of another lore book.

"Dean, she doesn't even _have_ any family in Pennsylvania." Sam paces around the library, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing his forehead.

"Well then what exactly do you think she's doing there?"

"I don't know – a hunt, maybe? Or, god – what if she's—"

"I'll stop you right there," Dean says, closing the book he's been reading to address the issue once and for all. "She's an adult. She can do whatever the hell she wants, and if she _wants_ to, you know – we can't stop her."

"Oh, that's a great attitude to have. So we should just let her go down that path, is that it?"

"No. What I'm saying is, we shouldn't try to fool anyone – ourselves included – into thinking that we can stop her." They exchange angry, seething glares for several long moments before Dean relents, shaking his head. "If you're so worried, why don't you track her phone?"

Sam laughs in response.

"Oh, don't tell me you're _beneath_ that now."

"No, it's just – I, uh, I already did. Earlier this morning," Sam admits, albeit reluctantly.

"Oh, yeah? And where was she?"

"…"

"Sam?"

"… She was in Pennsylvania. Exactly where she said she'd be."

"And you're still worried?"

"I am."

"Then check again."

So he does. And you're in the exact same spot that you were in earlier. "She hasn't moved at all. It's been, like, 12 hours since I last looked."

"Maybe she left her phone behind when she went out."

"At an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere?"

"I just – I wouldn't call that cause for worry yet." Sam shoots him a puppy-dog look – one he is all too familiar with. "Look, if she hasn't moved by tomorrow, I'll drive. Okay?"

"Yeah, alright. Fine. See you in the morning."

* * *

The only thing you can really do right about now is get up, quit wallowing, and face the world for what it is. As you roll out of bed, you notice one thing in particular that throws you off-kilter: it's not the beautiful, brightly-lit bedroom, or the silky-soft pajamas that you're wearing – it's that your arms are free of the scars that have become etched into your memory as much as they have been into your skin. _Oh god. What the fuck is going on?_ You scramble to look into the nearest mirror and find that you're still in your own body, but you look different – your face has filled out, your complexion a healthy tone. The characteristic bags are missing from underneath your eyes. You barely recognize yourself. _Am I dreaming?_

"Why, does my cooking really smell that good?"

You flinch hard at the sound of Sam's voice from where he stands behind you, jovial and smiling in the middle of the bedroom, tray of food in hand. _Breakfast in bed?_

"Sorry, I – I didn't realize I said that out loud."

"I thought you'd still be sleeping. I wanted to surprise you," he says, smile widening as he gestures to the tray in his hands. When you don't respond the way he obviously expects you to, worry bleeds into his expression. "Are you alright, babe?"

 _Babe?_

"I, uh – yeah, I just, um, I don't feel very well, I guess," you lie, giving him your very best sad smile.

He frowns. "Well let's get you back into bed, then, hmm? Maybe some breakfast will make you feel better?"

You smile and nod, letting him lead you back to bed by the hand and place the tray of food over your lap. It's then that you notice the engagement ring on your finger ( _oh shit, oh shit, oh SHIT_ _):_ a beautiful, diamond-studded infinity band. It's what you'd always wanted, what you'd always dreamed of – something simple and pretty that wouldn't get in the way. You sacrificed fashion a long time ago – clunky jewelry and noisy bangles and manicured fingernails are really just hindrances to your hunting, at the end of the day.

Sam has gone all-out and prepared your favorites – fried eggs over-easy, bacon, rye toast, pulp-free orange juice, and a cup of coffee, dressed exactly the way you like it. There's two daisies in a small vase on the corner of the tray, too. He sits on the edge of the bed beside you and watches you eagerly.

The worst part is that you know that Sam would never feel this way about you. He would never sit this close to you unless he was forced to. He would never play house with you for a case. He would never smile and bite his lip and call you babe, even if he was being held at gunpoint. _So this must just be a sick, sad fantasy._

"So, what's the occasion?" you ask, digging into the plate of food in front of you, giving him a fake smile. _As suspicious as I am of my current predicament, I'm starving, and it all just smells so good…_

"Oh, I don't know – Sunday morning, I guess. Just felt like it," he says, biting his lip.

"This is really, _really_ good, Sam. Holy wow," you say after having practically inhaled your entire breakfast.

He laughs and smiles that gorgeous, dimply smile that you're so fond of (the one that you haven't seen on him in a very long time) as he moves the tray off of your lap and onto the floor beside the bed. Then, much to your astonishment, he crawls up the bed and _good lord if that isn't the sexiest thing you've ever seen…_ Of course, you kind of saw this coming, with the flirty looks and the engagement ring and the adoration in his eyes when he called you 'babe.'

But that doesn't lessen the blow when his lips actually connect with yours, leaving you absolutely breathless and a little more than bothered. You feel like you're floating, even as your lungs constrict and the knot in your gut tightens and blood rushes to your head (and, well, _other parts_ ). You can't help the half-moan-half-whimper that escapes you, and in response, he places a hand reverently on your cheek and deepens the kiss. Your hands scramble for purchase, one taking up residence on his chest and the other finding its way to the back of his neck. And as you card your fingers through this hair and across his scalp, he lets out a long, delicious moan, drawing back to look you in the eyes before trailing kisses down the side of your jaw and along your neck. And as his head is lowered, distracting you from your obvious predicament, a small knock at the door pulls you out of your trance. You're too stunned to respond.

Following the small knock is an even smaller voice, asking "May I come in, please?"

And even after being interrupted, Sam still smiles up at you before responding happily, "Yes, you may."

The sight that greets you as the door opens leaves you in utter shock. It's a little girl, maybe five or six years old, clad in her lime green pajamas, with light brown hair tangled atop her head and a teddy bear clutched in her arms. She's the spitting image of your mother, and you fear for a moment that she's supposed to be _yours._

"And how can I help you this morning, Miss Lucy?" Sam mimics the child's adorable, overly polite tone as he kneels on the ground in front of her.

"I'm hungry, and I know it's impolite to bother grown-ups when they have the door shut, but someone put the cereal on top of the fridge and I can't reach it." You can't help but giggle into your hand – she's the cutest fucking thing you've ever seen.

"Now, Lucy – remember what happened last time you tried to pour your own milk? Your Mommy would be very mad if we wasted another whole gallon mopping the kitchen floor," he says, resolve setting on his face as he continues, "You know what? Who needs cereal when you've got Uncle Sam's Awesome Sunday Breakfast? Go on, get the cartoons going and I'll meet you in the kitchen in a minute, okay?" The little girl giggles and runs from the room excitedly.

"Now _you,_ " he says, turning his attention back to you. "Jenna called and said she won't be home for another few hours, so why don't you get some more sleep and come down when you're feeling a bit better, okay? We'll be back at the bunker in our own bed before you know it."

 _My… my sister, Jenna? My dead sister?_

You nod your head, muttering a quiet, 'okay,' and you know that you're not very convincing, but Sam seems to buy it. He tucks you back into bed, saying, "Alright, feel better babe." He drops a chaste kiss to your lips and whispers, "I love you." And you have just enough fantasy left in you to say it back.

* * *

As soon as Sam is out of earshot, you get dressed quickly and grab the set of car keys off of the dresser. You climb out of the bedroom window, scaling down the side of the lovely little suburban home before booking it across the backyard lawn, over the fence, and into what looks to be like your car. It's only now that you realize that you're in your home town. Next thing you know, you're just driving. You need to think.

It takes a while, but you finally realize exactly what brand of shit you've gotten yourself into – you've been the boys' researcher for the past several months, for fuck's sake. You know what a djinn dream looks like.

It's perfectly tailored to you. You're engaged to Sam Fucking Winchester, the man of your dreams, and your sister is alive (and you have a goddamn _niece) –_ but the most unrealistic part of this whole fantasy is that your gory, scar-ridden past has been scrubbed clean, and you are a solid, relatively healthy individual. There are things about this reality that make perfect sense, in your case: you'd never want to get out of The Life, knowing what you know now, and no amount of dream-healing can fix the broken, jaded, cynical part of your brain that needs to save the world from monsters to feel even a shred of self-worth. And of course, there's no way that you'd have a daughter in your own dream reality (the mere thought fills you with dread) – because you'd never be so selfish so as to curse another human being to be anything like you. It's a fate you wouldn't wish upon anyone.

You drive and drive until you reach a familiar vacant parking lot outside of an abandoned strip mall. This is where you and your delinquent friends used to go to drink or smoke pot or whatever you did when you were in high school. You climb through the same gap in the fence that has been there for over a decade now, making your way inside of the old furniture outlet. You need to think in peace.

In the middle of the dusty, grimy old floor, you sit down and curl in on yourself, realizing that this is it – this is what you have left: your own misery and empty fantasies. _This is how I die._

"But I thought that was the point, though, wasn't it? Or have I missed something?"

The person standing before you is a very convincing copy of your sister, but you know better. At the sight of her, your mind is instantly flooded with the gruesome memories of her death – of the demon who possessed her body and spoke with her tongue, of the steps she took off the roof of that factory, of the way the demon continued to wear her like a meat suit until—

Obviously, the creature senses your fury and relents, switching its face to Dean's. "I just want to speak to you. I know you know what I am and how I function, so I won't try to hide it from you. Who would you like to see?"

Tears stream down your cheeks as you grit, "You. Just show me you."

"Of course," it says, bowing its head before transforming into its original djinn form – one of tattooed skin and flaming blue eyes. It doesn't alarm you. "Do you know why I brought you here? Why I gave you this world?"

"Because you're a sadistic son of a bitch who needed a snack and I was practically delivered to your doorstep."

The creature is not offended or fazed by your outburst. "A sad, bony heap of self-loathing, tears, and regrets is hardly an appetizing snack," it deadpans. _Well, you do have a point there..._ "I brought you here because you wanted it – you were _begging_ for it. I could feel your desire from miles away – your desire to die, to leave your life behind."

You are stunned for a moment ( _how can it speak so plainly about this?_ ) before recoiling. "Yeah, maybe – but on my own terms!"

"Well, let these be your terms: I can give you a lifetime of exactly the world you want, however you want it. I can give you more time than a crossroads demon ever could, without damning your soul to hell for eternity. And while you'll only last a few days in the real world – which you already know to be true – you wanted to die anyway. This way, you'll no longer feel like a burden on the Winchester boys' lives; they won't have to worry about saving you any longer. And here, in this world, you can love Sam freely and feel his love in return. You can have your sister back. You can have exactly what you wanted – you can leave your sad little life behind and be happy."

You mull this over for several long moments, the Djinn waiting on you patiently. "But… but, it's kind of pathetic, isn't it? Pretending, when I know it's not real?"

"Oh, who says it can't be? It's the perfect image of Sam and Jenna, erected from your memories: this is as real as it will ever get for you, my dear."

"This is ridiculous. I know what you are. I know that you're killing me."

"You were killing you first," it quips. You don't have a good comeback for that one. "So, what do you say?"

* * *

" _Drive faster_ ," Sam orders from the passenger seat of the Impala.

Dean presses harder on the gas pedal, feeling the worry coming off of Sam in waves. He knows that now is not a time for jokes or sass, so he shoots for reassurance.

"We'll find her, Sammy. She'll be okay."

"You can't possibly know that for sure."

"No, I can't, but I have a feeling."

"Me too. But mine is telling me that we need to haul ass and find her before it's too late. If it's not already too late."

* * *

You have to admit, it's not easy giving in and going along with the ruse when you know what's really going on. But after a few days, the weirdness and the hesitance starts to fade away – because it actually stats to feel incredibly real. Your sister is solid and warm and _alive_ when you hug her. Dean reacts the same as he always does to your jokes and references, and you still disagree on what TV shows to watch, but he's not walking on eggshells around you anymore. He doesn't look at you like you're a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode your guts all over the bunker (which he'd inevitably and begrudgingly have to mop up).

Sam is the same, but noticeably happier. And now, you can touch him the way you've always wanted to. He comes up behind you in the kitchen each morning when you're cooking, wrapping his arms around you and kissing your neck. You still have the same deep, intellectual discourse, but at the end of each day, he shares a bed with you, his breath crawling down the back of your neck, and a small voice in the back of your mind reminds you that this is a fantasy. You wish it would just shut up and let you enjoy it.

The hunts are still intense and the threats are still there, but the ones you love are close to you – and they stay that way.

* * *

You haven't given Fantasy Sam (as you've taken to calling him) any opportunity to be intimate with you. You feel like having sex with him would be taking things too far – because apparently, living your entire life inside of a fabricated, fantasy dream-universe isn't crazy, but defiling the mere image of Sam in your memory would definitely be the last straw. _God, if Sam ever found out about this…_

 _But he's not going to. You'll be dead and he'll never know what a depraved lunatic you truly are._

This argument runs through your head every single time Fantasy Sam gets too close to you. But as this is _your_ dream world, where everything is exactly as you like it, he never pushes you. But even in the real world, you reason, he doesn't seem like the kind of person who would anyway.

* * *

One day, several weeks into this fantasy of yours, you feel what can only be described as a glitch in the matrix – you feel a phantom grip on your shoulder, then a loud ringing sound resonates in your ear, blocking out the conversation that you're having with Dean.

And even with your obvious display of discomfort, Dean doesn't flinch at all, reminding you once again that this is all a dream.

* * *

The boys find you, your phone still tucked in your pocket, inside the cellar of the abandoned barn. You're unconscious, sprawled out on some sort of operating table, your wrists and ankles bound to the corners. You're hooked up to an IV drip. It doesn't take long for them to realize what's going on here; after all, they've witnessed it firsthand before.

"She's not waking up, Dean. I don't understand," Sam says, frantically trying to wake you from your dream state as he cuts you free of your binds and carefully extracts the IV.

"Me neither. She knows exactly what to do when captured by a djinn. We've talked about this."

They split up to try to locate the djinn, but it's proving impossible. When they meet back up in the cellar, they find a note on the operating table that holds your unconscious body.

 _I'll have moved on by the time you're reading this. Don't bother coming after me._

 _I just thought you should know that she wanted it; I was only doing her a favor._

 _I hate to leave unfinished business, but it's no huge loss to me. Her sadness left a bitter taste in my mouth anyway._

"That was oddly poetic," Dean says, the note throwing him off. His usual answer is to gank the son of a bitch and save the vic – what is he supposed to do now? "Well, it looks like we have a very literate djinn on our hands, I suppose."

" _Out_ of our hands, Dean. It got away." There's a long pause – a heavy, sinking reticence as the boys process the situation. Sam is the first to break the silence. "Okay, so how do we get her out of this if we can't kill the djinn? Her pulse is weak and her breath is shallow – she's fading fast. She doesn't have much time left."

"At this point, it looks like the only one who can save her is her."

"And you and I both know that she may not be willing to do that." Sam sighs, searching his brain for an answer – for some way to contact her. "Okay, hang on – I've got an idea!"

"Don't strain yourself, Sammy," Dean jokes, but Sam knows that it's his own way of saying, _'let's hear it.'_

"I need a couple of things from the Impala. Please tell me that we still have some African Dream Root."

"I think we do, and I like where you're going with this. What can I do?"


	2. The Salvation

You've spent about two months in your fantasy world thus far, and you have to say – it may be a bit boring here, but it's refreshing. There's something to be said about the impact that fearing for your life every second of every day can have on your mental status. You can feel your resolve slowly building itself back up, the darkness inside of you ebbing just the tiniest bit every day. Without the scars on your arms, thighs, and stomach, you can be removed from that part of yourself, of your past – now it's just a chapter in your life that no longer impacts you. And you're a better hunter in this world – you can take a step back and think rationally about a situation before acting, because you know that whatever happens, the results of your actions will pose no danger to you or the ones you love. Sure, hunting is strange when you know that the people that you're trying to save and the monsters that you're trying to kill don't even exist – but at the end of the day, it really just feels like you're playing a video game. And each successive victory still feels incredibly sweet.

It's just another random, boring Monday here at the bunker. Dean is in the garage, working on his Baby. Sam is in the library vetting a possible case. And you are in the war room, crouching down to pet your adorable new kitten as it sleeps.

Suddenly, the world around you just stops. The music coming from the garage has gone quiet. Sam has frozen mid-page-turn where he sits at the table. And the kitten's purring has been paused. Needless to say, you are alarmed; panic sets in immediately as you fear that you're losing your grip on the fantasy.

But then, you hear a voice coming from behind you – Sam's voice. "You know, Dean would _never_ let a cat live in the bunker."

You freeze, afraid to turn around. Instead, you close your eyes, steeling yourself, and calmly ask, "What is going on?"

"Well, I, uh—I'm here to rescue you."

You laugh bitterly in response. "Oh, yeah, Sam Fucking Winchester is _actually_ here to save the day. Give me a _break_ ," you say, finally turning to face the voice. It looks like Sam, but that's no surprise. _It's probably the djinn, here to call off the deal or screw me over or something. Figures._ "What do you want?"

Sam shakes his head, mimicking your bitter laugh. "No, really – it's actually me. You're dreaming right now – you were captured by a djinn, and—"

"You really think I don't know that already?" Sam is taken aback by this, confusion splayed plainly on his face, as if he hadn't even considered it for a moment. He probably just didn't want to. "Why are you here, Sam? _How_ are you here?"

"I, uh… well, the djinn got away before we could gank the son of a bitch, so… It took some African Dream Root and a bit of spellwork, but yeah. Important thing is, I'm here. I'm here to get you out of this."

"Christ, Sam," you say, shaking your head. "Don't… don't you get it?"

"Get _what_?"

"I… I _chose_ to be here. Don't you think that if I wanted out, I would've gotten out a long time ago?"

"It's only been, like, 18 hours."

"It's been _two months,_ " you reply.

"So, what – you just decided, _'oh, screw it – I'll just stay here and die,'_ is that it?"

"It's not the first time, Sammy."

He shakes his head, completely bereft of words. His only response to you is to express his apparent disbelief. "I… I can't believe this." You shoot him a look that says, _'Really? You can't?'_ "Isn't it a little, I don't know – solipsistic?"

"Touché," you sneer. "Maybe it is, yeah."

"You know, I understand the need to escape. Really, I do. There are images in my head that haunt my every waking moment; I have memories that cast shadows on my every sunny day. I have demons inside of me, too, just like you do. But you must know that this – this is not the cure."

"That's just it though, isn't it? There is no cure – only a way out. So can you really blame me for wanting a little happiness before I go?"

He's pacing now, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head. Eventually, he stops, and a quiet fury registers on his face. _Oh, that's not good._ In a low, sardonic tone, he grits, "You know what? Yeah, I can. Because this is awfully fucking selfish of you."

" _Selfish_? Are you fucking kidding me? I'm doing you a favor!"

"In what world could you possibly believe that killing yourself would be doing _me_ a favor?"

You roll your eyes, because he's obviously being obtuse. "I know what I am to you, Sam. I'm doing you a favor by removing myself from the picture, so you don't have to worry about me anymore – so you don't have to feel responsible for what happens to me, so you and Dean don't have to tiptoe around me and my emotions like I'm a fucking landmine, so you don't have to protect me from myself anymore. And yet once again, here you are: foiling my attempts to rectify this person I've become out of some twisted sense of obligation that you have to 'save' me." You're fuming now. "Oh, and the very best part – the real irony here – is that what you have come here to ask me to do is to kill myself inside the dream to wake me up in the real world." Your laugh is seething.

"I just…" You feel a smug sense of satisfaction at the look of defeat on his face, but when a tear rolls down his cheek, the feeling recedes. "I don't know what we could have possibly done to make you feel like you are a burden to us – but whatever we did, or said, or didn't do, or didn't say, I'm just… I'm so sorry."

You can honestly say that you weren't expecting an apology, and now you just feel a little pathetic. _How very fitting._

"We love you. We really do. And we love all of you – not just the good parts. You mean more to us than just the extra pair of hands and eyes that you provide when we're on hunts. There's a reason we keep you around, and it's not because we pity you, or because you're useful to us sometimes. Sure, maybe we're overprotective of you, and of course we feel responsible for your wellbeing. But do you know why we feel that way – where that sense of obligation comes from? It's not guilt; it's love. We feel obligated to save you because we love you. And yes, it is awfully fucking selfish of you to take yourself away from us – away from me. So, are you going to do the honors, or am I going to have to do it for you?"

 _Does he really think that a heartfelt speech is going to fix this?_

"You and I both know that you can't. If you could have any actual effect on this world, you wouldn't have had to pause my dream to talk to me. You can't do a damn thing." You sigh. "But I need to be completely honest with you first, Sam. Let's get one thing straight: I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry for this – I can't be, not for trying, for one moment in my stupid, insignificant little life, to do something for myself. So yeah, maybe it makes me selfish. But I think that I've earned the right."

"There's selfish, and then there's reckless. Your death wouldn't affect just you. It would absolutely devastate everyone around you. And yeah, before you roll your eyes at me, it really, really would. You're not as 'insignificant' as you think. And if you don't believe me – if you don't feel that way – just take a look at your track record."

"What _track record_?"

He huffs a laugh. "All of the people you've helped save. All of the spirits you've put to rest. All of the threats you've taken out."

You laugh at his attempt to make you feel like you're worth something.

"Nice try, Sammy. But you guys did all those things. I just tagged along and lugged the gear and dug up a few graves. All that I've actually 'done,' as you say, is help you guys in _your_ hunts. Hell – I can't even take out a fucking djinn by myself. I'm nothing."

He smiles the saddest smile you've ever seen in response. "I hope I can make you see otherwise, some day. But for now, you need to come back to us. Please, _please_ come back to us _._ "

 _Am I really going to give this up? I haven't even tried out my live-action Sam Winchester sex doll yet. Pity._ "Yeah, okay. I guess it's up to me, then."

"One last question, before you do this," he says hesitantly.

You frown, wondering what he could possibly want to know. "What is it?"

"I have to ask: what exactly makes this place so different from the real world? They look the same. And don't tell me that it's the cat."

You smile sadly at him. "Jenna is alive. We're not in imminent danger all of the time. And this," you say, rolling up your sleeves as you approach him. You're showing him your arms, where your most prominent self-harm scars should be. "I feel okay. Like I can breathe."

But in showing him your arms, his gaze is then also drawn to the ring on your finger. "And you're engaged?" _Please don't ask, please don't ask, please don't—_ "Who's the lucky guy?"

You press your lips together, biting the inside of your cheek. You say nothing, and he frowns. Then, in a moment of clarity, he turns around, looks at the dream version of himself, then back at you, a questioning look in his eye. _Oh god, and there's that quirked-eyebrow-frowny-face thing he does again…_ You avert your gaze, because if he hasn't figured it out by now, he certainly will once he sees the look in your eyes.

No sooner do you grab the nearest gun and find yourself eating a bullet so you don't have to answer Sam's next question.

* * *

Sam wakes up before you – several hours before you, in fact.

Dean shakes him violently as he tries to get a hold of himself. "What happened, Sam? _Sam_?"

"Yeah, yeah – I'm… I'm good, Dean."

"Did you get to her?"

"I did. It wasn't easy to convince her, but I did," he says, images from the dream slowly coming back to him. "Her dream was… It was just, I don't know, _not_ what I would've expected. She was in the bunker with the two of us."

"The _bunker_? In mine, we weren't even hunters."

"Yeah, well, she, uh – there were no scars on her arms anymore. She looked, I don't know, _healthy_ , Dean. Apparently her sister was still alive, too. And get this: there was a kitten living in the bunker." A look of disgust crosses Dean's face. "I know, I know. Also, there was an engagement ring on her finger."

"Oh, really? Should I ask who she was engaged to?"

"I think… I think it might've been _me_ ," he says, quietly. "I don't know – I asked her and there was just this shame written all over her face. Then she literally shot herself to avoid answering the question," he says, laughing awkwardly at the memory.

"Dude," he says, the look in his eyes so very serious. "You have to tell her."

"No, Dean, I don't. I don't want to fuck her up even more than she already is. She has enough shit on her plate without me adding my baggage to it."

Dean just blinks at him in response. "God, you really are an idiot sometimes."

"I went to Stanford."

"You know what I mean." Sam rolls his eyes. "Point is, she's depressed, she hurts herself – she wants to _die_ , Sammy. So maybe, maybe we should try to do what we can to make her life more like her dream world. Maybe then, she won't want to leave us."

"Are you saying… are you saying that you'd be willing to get a cat?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but… I'm willing to get _two_ if it'll help us save her." Sam's mouth hangs agape; he's speechless. "But that means that you have to do your part too. You gotta tell her, Sammy."

"What if it isn't me? What if it's you that she was engaged to?"

"Dude. You should see the way she looks at you. It's you. It's always been you."

"And why have you _never_ mentioned this before?"

"Well…because I didn't want you messing her up more," says Dean, a pained look on his face.

" _See?!_ That's what I'm saying!"

"It's time though, Sammy. Put on your big boy pants and tell her how you feel. Maybe we were both wrong."

"We'll see, as soon as she wakes up. Why isn't she waking up?"

"That's a good question. I don't know."

"The djinn poison must've messed her up pretty bad. She's not getting any better, Dean. Should we get her to a hospital?"

"And say what? _'Yeah, she was in a djinn poison-induced coma, and even though we went inside her dream and got her to kill herself, we still can't wake her up. Is there a procedure for that sort of thing?'"_

"We'll figure it out, Dean. We can make up a story on the way."

* * *

You awaken to the dull beeping of a heart monitor and the familiar smell of a hospital room. _Blegh, not again…_ Sam and Dean are on either side of you, gripping your hands tightly. You're sore everywhere, every muscle in your body tense and aching, a migraine radiating from behind your eyeballs and rattling throughout your skull. You've seen worse days, for sure – but right about now, you're missing your blissful coma dream.

Dean looks up at you, his face breaking into a wide, radiant smile. It reaches his eyes, too, and they practically sparkle with something like relief and happiness. No one has ever been so happy to see you in your entire life. In fact, last time you woke up in a hospital bed like this, the only thing you were greeted with was anger, pity, and disappointment. So this reaction, while it is entirely foreign to you, is most certainly a great relief.

Meanwhile, Sam has fallen asleep in the chair adjacent to your bed, his face resting peacefully beside your hand on the mattress. "Dude, _dude_ , she's awake," Dean practically shouts, smacking his brother's upper arm to wake him. Sam flinches hard, frantically scrambling to gather himself. "Go get the doctor, would you?"

Sam nods and runs out of the room, returning seconds later to say, "She's on her way."

Meanwhile, Dean turns his attention back to you, noticeably lowering his voice to a calmer, more soothing tone. "Hey, how're you feeling, kiddo?" He keeps one hand gripping yours, and uses the other to pet your hair like a child.

"I'm…" you start, your throat feeling bone dry and hoarse, as if you haven't had a drink of water in over a week. "How—" you start again, having to stop to clear your throat, "how long have I been out?"

Sam visibly swallows, squeezing your hand tighter (and you don't have the heart to ask him to ease up on his grip when the heart monitor on your forefinger is digging into your skin). Sam and Dean exchange hesitant glances before Sam decides to explain. "Eight days and fourteen hours, if you include the time before we were able to get to you."

 _Well, that explains a lot – why I'm so thirsty, why I feel like I've been hit by a train, why I suddenly have a severe aversion to fluorescent lighting…_

The doctor enters the room before you're able to ask more questions, closing the door behind her. She's bearing a pitcher of water and a cup, and she chuckles a bit at the look on your face as you eye it up. "I thought you'd be needing this," she says, pouring you a cup. "Go easy on it, now – wouldn't want you getting sick." she says, giving you a soft smile. "Or sick _er_ , rather."

And it's the greatest water you've ever had in your entire life.

"So, you gave us a pretty big scare there. We were able to drain the djinn poison out of your system," she begins, stopping herself as she recognizes the shock on your face. "Forgive me, I've lost my manners."

"This is Dr. Reynolds," Dean interjects, "one of our dad's old contacts. Not only is she a damn good doctor, but she knows about monsters and the hunting life."

"Well, sort of. John saved me from a werewolf once, then came back to me many times over the years. It was, _'Oh, that was from a vampire,'_ or, _'that was just a close call with a wraith.'_ I don't really know much of anything about monsters, but I know that they exist, at least, and I'll do what I can to help. But anyway, Sam and Dean filled me in on this djinn creature and what it does to its victims, and I have to say, you are incredibly lucky to be alive."

You can't help but roll your eyes a little in response.

"Now, now – I know about that part, too. But some piece of you must have really, _really_ wanted to live for you to have been able to hang in there for so long," she says, her smile slightly bittersweet. "As I was saying before, we were able to drain your system of the djinn poison, but it took several days. You were in a state of severe dehydration, low core temperature, and hypotension when Sam and Dean found you. We were able to stabilize you, and miraculously, you shouldn't have any sort of permanent damage – aside from whatever psychological trauma that the djinn inflicted. But I'm told that you're tough and can handle it. We can get you out of here in a few hours, your health permitting," she says, with an air of finality and a sweet smile. "I'll leave you guys to it." With that, she exits the room.

You don't have much to say, really. Yet Sam and Dean look at you expectantly, obviously waiting for an admission, an apology, a thank you – anything, really – but they are met with silence.

Sam is the first to talk. "We're just really glad you're okay." You look at him, returning his eye contact and wondering what he could possibly be expecting you to say next.

You know that they aren't going to poke and prod you with intrusive questions – that's not how they handle things like this. No, they'll wait patiently in silence until you decide to speak. So, you give them the only thing you can: the truth. "I didn't… I wasn't expecting it to be a djinn – I thought it was a vampire or something. I really just needed to leave the bunker, to kill some monsters. I was going stir crazy, but I didn't want to worry you with such a little case. You had so much on your plates, and I know that you'd want to come with me. You'd never let me hunt alone. Especially after… what I did."

"Hey, look," Dean starts, the soft, reassuring tone returning to his voice.

But you interrupt him before he can continue. "Please, let me finish," you say, your voice free of malice or bitterness. "I really just want to lay everything out on the table. Then, we can talk about it."

Dean mimes a zipper across his lips, locking it and throwing away the proverbial key. And Sam nods, tacitly telling you to go on. You smile.

"Thanks. Okay. So I went to look into a case because I needed to hunt, and I needed to be alone. And yeah, maybe deep down I was trying to throw myself into the line of fire. But not like this – never like this. I was captured by the djinn, and I knew it almost immediately upon waking up in my fantasy world. I tried to run, to think, to come up with a plan – and the djinn came to me, and we had a little chat. It was weirdly very civil, laying everything out for me honestly. Basically, I could fight the dream, get out, and kill the fucker, leaving me exactly where I was when I started. Or, I could stay there, in the dream, and live a lifetime of bliss. And yeah, I knew it would kill me. But that didn't really affect my decision at all. I just wanted, I don't know – relief, I guess. The djinn made a really compelling argument: that it could give me longer than a crossroads demon ever could, and after I died, my soul wouldn't be damned to hell for eternity. It seemed like a pretty sweet deal."

The boys both seem to ponder that for a moment, nodding and shrugging like they understand. Of course they get it – both of them have made deals with crossroads demons before, and both of them know the consequences of such.

"So I decided to stay. For a little while, at least. It was a nice vacation. And hunting in the dream was pretty cool – it was like a video game, because I knew we would survive every hunt. I didn't really care that it wasn't real." You pause, reflecting on what you just said. "Wow, that truly sounds insane. I knew I was depraved, but – wow…" you say, shaking your head. "Alright. I'll – I'll just stop there. Discuss."

They simply stare at you and blink. In any other situation, you would laugh at how plainly their thoughts and emotions are splayed across their features. But now, you are merely a witness to the spectacle before you as you let them process everything.

Dean takes a breath to speak, but stops himself. He repeats this twice before finally deciding on which words he wants to use. "I think," he says, pausing to cast a sideways glance to his brother, "I think I speak for both of us when I say that we know how hard it was for you to leave – but we're really, _really_ thankful that you came back to us." Sam nods in agreement. "We know you didn't do it for you – you did it for us. And for now, that's okay. It's progress. But we're prepared to help you change things."

You laugh and shake your head, made incredibly uncomfortable by the unfamiliar touchy-feely topic of conversation. This isn't Dean's department – but despite his obvious discomfort, his face stays serious, his focus unbroken. He's trying very hard for you right now. You suppose that you should probably reciprocate, but you can't help your joking, flippant responses, really. _What can I say? I laugh when I'm uncomfortable._

Dean presses on. "You know, we regret the way we handled things after the, uh… after you tried to kill yourself," he says, all three of you feeling the gravity of those words being spoken for the first time. "We just… sort of, you know, gave you a ride home, and that was it. We brushed it under the rug, because that's how we were raised: compartmentalize any emotional baggage that you have so it doesn't get in the way of hunting. We should've, I don't know – talked to you about it or something. But we ignored it, pretended it didn't happen, and we're so, _so_ sorry."

You laugh bitterly, "To be honest, Dean, I didn't really want to talk about it anyway. I guess I just thought that you were, I don't know – angry with me, or disappointed in me or something. I wasn't expecting you guys to suddenly be in-tune with my emotional well-being or anything, but when you avoided me completely, when you left me out of your hunts – I kind of thought you were just keeping me around out of guilt, out of pity. Like you were 'protecting me' because you felt some sort of obligation to."

Dean looks at you the way he does when he thinks Sam is being an idiot. "Please dear god tell me that you don't still believe that."

"Well, I mean. I guess not anymore. But up until a few minutes ago – yeah, I did."

Dean sighs and shakes his head, leaning back in his seat, and Sam squeezes your hand as if preparing to talk.

This is like a script being performed in front of your eyes; the dialogue and stage directions are so very predictable. _End scene. Dean, exit stage left. And… cue Sam's motivational pep talk, complete with soft piano accompaniment and a single tear trailing down his cheek. I've definitely seen this all before on an episode of Full House._

You cut in before he can even begin. "Okay, okay, look – I get it. You really don't have to say any more. Sam – I don't know exactly what you're going to say next, but I know it'll probably make me cry and we'll hug it out and…fucking—braid our hair and sing kumbaya or some shit." They laugh. _At last – I've succeeded in lightening the mood._ "Point is – I get the idea. _Really,_ " you assure them, mustering up your best genuine smile.

"Awh, so wait – Sam doesn't have to do the emotional chick-flick talk, but I do?" You shrug. "But he's so much _better_ at it than I am!"

"You did just fine," you say, smiling and patting his hand condescendingly.

"And I think you're way past due for one of those, Dean."

Secretly, you know that whatever Sam had to say would've been dreadfully, painfully awkward. You know you would've just blushed and made a fool of yourself. After the fact, you realize that you were more willing agree to their terms, to conquer your inner demons – the ones you've been running from for so, so long – than you were to have The Awkward Conversation with Sam. You know that you can't run from it forever, but – much like your demons – that won't stop you from trying your damnedest and going down swinging.

* * *

The boys are hiding smiles on the way home from the hospital, sniggering like insolent, impish children playing a prank on their teacher. You realize why upon entering the bunker.

At the bottom of the stairs you are met with a truly astonishing sight: Castiel, Angel of the Lord™, is leaning against the long table in the library with a small ball of fur in his arms. He smiles when he sees you, reluctantly holding out his arms. "Here: Sam and Dean have procured this young mammal creature for you."

But you don't have the capacity to stop and laugh at him, because _HOLYFUCKINGMOTHEROFSHIT_ there's a fucking _kitten_ in the fucking _bunker!_

Upon seeing Dean, Castiel says, "I put him in the basket like you instructed, Dean," he said, gesturing to the cutesy presentation setup on the table, "but he kept crying and asking me to love him. I wasn't exactly sure how to do that."

" _Oh_ , oh Jesus Christ—just fucking… _look at this thing!_ " The kitten is an adorable little fluff ball – an orange tabby – probably less than 8 weeks old, by the look of it. Its big, beady blue kitty eyes are gazing lovingly up at you, and you can't handle it. _"_ Oh my god, I—I can't, shit – th-this is for me? Like, to keep? _Here_?" The boys laugh at your reaction.

"Yeah, he really is," Dean says. "And Cas volunteered to check in on him when we're on hunts."

Sam leans his back against the wall and folds his arms, enjoying the happy scene before him. Dean gets you each a beer, having a seat and kicking his feet up on the war room table. Cas sits on the floor, petting the kitten with you, 'translating' every time he makes one those adorable, characteristic little mewling sounds.

"He's just… he's just crying loudly. There's no real reason for it," Cas supplies, trying to be helpful. "He's not in distress. I don't understand." You find it endearing.

You suddenly realize that he doesn't have a name. "What should I name him?"

The guys shrug noncommittally. "He's your cat," Dean says, his joking display of dislike already beginning to show through in his tone.

You consider it for less than a minute before deciding on a name. "I've always wanted to have a Crookshanks."

As if on cue, Dean asks, "… a _what_ , now?"

Sam replies, somewhat ashamedly, "It's a… Harry Potter thing."

And Dean shoots him that _why-the-hell-do-you-know-that_ look that you're all very familiar with.

Of course, you understood immediately upon seeing it where the idea of a kitten came from. You were quick to question the motives behind their gesture, finding it somewhat shallow and maybe a little misguided. _Like they think a kitten will fix me_. But mostly, you just wanted to ignore it. It's hard to overthink things like that when you've got a kitten in front of you, looking at you for all the world like you're the greatest thing it's ever seen. _Maybe it_ could _help with my… recovery._ You shudder at the term and its various connotations: _weak, broken, dependent, helpless, fragile._

 _Do it for them_. _They're trying to help – the least you can do is put a little effort into it too._

But now, after your internal monologue, you're able to stop and hug each of them, thanking them sincerely – but it's about more than just the kitten. It's for everything. And you hope that they tacitly get that.


	3. The Retribution

**A/N:** Warning: herein lies smut and tears (not at the same time, of course) and confrontation.

* * *

Things are weird, to say the least.

You know how sometimes, in the movies or on TV, they tint the color of the scene a washed-out blue color to portray a bleak situation or a character's bleak outlook on life? Then when the mood improves, the scene is suddenly bright and yellowish-orange?

Yeah, right about now, Sam and Dean are like the video editors, aggressively upping the bright, happy yellow-orange-ness to contrast earlier scenes and lighten the mood – but you, the protagonist (as far as the boys are concerned, at least), are still stuck running lines for the last scene, and all the mood lighting is giving you a headache.

But the boys are pretending that all is peachy-fucking-keen. Maybe it's because they think that if you all fake it long enough, and if you're really convincing, you'll eventually manage to convince even yourselves. Or maybe, they just want you to feel like like everything's "normal" again (the term being used loosely) so you can adjust. They have coddled you, sheltered you before, and you were miserable (well, you would've been miserable regardless, so—), so maybe they think that the other extreme will work out better?

* * *

A few days after you return to the bunker, you wake up one morning to find a small rest-stop-quality photo album that had been slid under your bedroom door.

You're very confused at first; when you open it up, you find that there are about two dozen 4"x6" pages worth of random family photos and kids' school pictures and newspaper clippings – both old and new. Your first thought is that it's like something a blackmailer would leave in your mailbox to scare you.

But once you start actually looking, you finally realize the central theme: each page, each photo, refers to a case that you've worked.

The first one is of a kindergarten class picture – a reminder of the very first case that you worked with the boys: it was a changeling case, where four family members tied to children in the class died, all the same way. It was right after the incident with your sister, when the two of you got tangled up in some demon nonsense that got her possessed and subsequently killed. The boys took you in after that – something about how you handled the demon hunt and how they liked your spunk or whatever. Point being, you wanted to learn how to hunt, so they taught you. You wanted to get away from your life and your grief, so they brought you along for the ride.

On the class photo, _"you were right"_ is written in Sharpie, with an arrow pointing to the teacher's aide. You smile fondly at the memory – the boys thought the mother changeling was the teacher; they were totally convinced. And while they did find some very seedy files on the teacher's personal computer that led to her arrest, the mother changeling was actually the teacher's aide all along – which you called from the very beginning. The boys celebrated your victory, treating you to a round of drinks, even though you did nothing to actually _kill_ the changeling. But they said that you saved the kids, _and_ the teacher, and you accepted the drinks without argument.

Each subsequent page has very particular pictures on them, some with names or captions, like _"werewolf case, November 2015"_ or _"that time you gave CPR and saved a dude's life._ " A couple of pages just have index cards with little anecdotes on them, like, " _remember that time you made us pull over to help an injured squirrel on the side of the road?"_ or " _there was that time that you convinced us to let an innocent witch go,_ " or " _remember when you stopped to call animal control and give first aid to a deer that'd been hit by a car?"_ There are pictures of people you've helped save. There are obituaries and old newspaper clippings, detailing the gruesome deaths of those whose spirits you remember putting to rest.

The second to last page has two pictures on it: one of you and your sister, with the caption, " _you helped her soul find peace_ ," and the other of Dean, Sam, and Castiel leaning against the Impala, no caption needed.

The very last page has a post-it note on it, and in Sam's handwriting, it says,

 _Just in case you forgot._ _—S.W._

Your mind flashes back to the conversation that you and Sam had in your dream, when he tried to make you feel worth something.

 _"Nice try, Sammy. But you guys did all those things. I just tagged along and lugged the gear and dug up a few graves. All that I've actually 'done,' as you say, is help you guys in your hunts. Hell – I can't even take out a fucking djinn by myself. I'm nothing."_

 _"I hope I can make you see otherwise, some day."_

And you let the tears flow freely, touched beyond measure at the thoughtful gesture and pained to your very core that you're still not convinced in the least.

* * *

Dean pauses that period of weird mock-cheerfulness to have a talk, just a few days after your return home – on your first day off of bed rest, in fact. He catches you when you're vulnerable – when you're on your way to the fridge for a drink and the two of you are alone in the bunker – and sits you down in the library, getting his Big Brother Dean face on.

"I thought with you finally being off bed rest that you'd be up and about. Figured you'd be itching to get some fresh air or walk around or something," he says, trying to break the ice.

"Yeah, I guess I'm just not feeling one hundred percent yet," you say with a grimace. "But that's not what you wanted to talk to me about. So what's up?"

"You're right – it's not. I just miss seeing you is all," he says, a small smile crossing his face before he gets serious. "Look, there's no polite way to broach this subject, but, uh, when me and Sam found you, you were tied down to an old operating table – which you wouldn't remember, I guess – but your, uh… your sleeves were rolled up a bit." You cast your eyes downward at your hands fiddling in your lap, rejecting his attempts to make eye contact. He doesn't need to say any more for you to know exactly where he's going with this: he wants to know about the fresh marks on your arms. "Hey, look –" he says, finally getting you to look up at him. You just didn't want him to see the tears in your eyes. "I'm not trying to grill you, here, kiddo." He holds out his hand for you to take, and you reluctantly accept it.

"I know," you say, the grimace you plastered on earlier returning in full force alongside your watery eyes, making a not-so-pretty picture as you start to snivel. "Sorry, I feel really stupid for crying right now, I just… I panic at the thought of having to talk to anyone about it, because I know how bad it is, and I know I need to stop, I just – I can't help but react this way. I'm sorry."

"You really, really don't need to apologize. I'm just relieved that we can finally talk about it," he assures you. "No secrets, okay? We gotta be honest with each other or this doesn't work at all." You smile and nod, and he continues. "Me and Sammy kind of, I don't know – assumed, I guess, that you'd stopped hurting yourself after you had to be hospitalized; we thought that you swallowing a bottle of pills would be a wake-up call, and that would be the end of it." It hurts you to hear him say it all out loud without hesitation, but at least he's not using the harsh words – words like _cutting_ and _suicide_. That lessens the blow a little bit. "But we were pretty naïve in believing that, I gather."

You huff a single humorless chuckle. "Yeah, I agreed to nothing."

"I understand that now. But when we found you, we were pretty concerned about it – not gonna lie. Sam was particularly upset, but I don't think he wants to admit that. We all have our unhealthy coping mechanisms," he remarks with a bitter smile, "but, no pun intended, it looked like you were cutting it close a few times, there." You both smirk at the stupid joke. "The doctor asked about it. Said some of them were obviously infected as they healed, and some of them definitely would've needed stitches."

He's really good at this: making statements and presenting hypotheses that are enough to prompt a response without him having to ask too many questions.

"Yeah. I—I was neglectful, I guess. I didn't care how bad I let it get – probably because I didn't expect to be sticking around for very long. I did manage the stitches myself, though."

"On both arms? That takes skill."

You're both talking lightheartedly about some very tough shit, and you're so grateful to Dean for making this manageable. "Only a few times, and I didn't do a very good job. But it did the trick."

"So here's the thing," he says, his smile fading as his tone grows serious again, but it's not as intimidating as it would normally be. "We're hunters. We live shitty lives as the world's martyrs, and it sucks. And like I said before, we all have unhealthy ways that we cope. So Sammy and I had a little chat, and we're both on the same page – we're not going to take your razors and knives away, and we're not going to check you every day for fresh marks or anything like that. I'm not saying that you absolutely have to stop, or that we'll think any less of you if you do it again. As much as it hurts us to know that you're doing this to yourself, and as much as we want you to stop, we know that we can't force you to do anything. You're an adult and it's your body to do with as you see fit. But _please_ , for god's sake, if you're in trouble again and you need stitches, come to us. If you let something get infected, let us help you take care of it. We want to help you stop this, but we know that it takes time, and this is the first step. All we're asking is that you be _careful_ with yourself, and if you need help, be honest with us. We're there. We're not judging you or looking down on you. We just want to make sure that you're okay. Because we really do love you, kiddo."

"Dean, I—" you can't finish because you're suddenly full-on sobbing, a mix of good and bad emotions making for a very, _very_ ugly cry. He seems to get the gist, not expecting you to say anything back. He just sits down beside you, holding you close and rocking you back and forth, hushing you like he would a crying child. But you aren't bothered by it at all; in fact, it's exactly what you need right now.

When your breathing evens out and you run out of tears to cry, he lets you go, saying, "You good?" And you can't help but laugh.

"Nope. But I'm working on it. I think I need a nap though, after that," you say, drying your puffy, red eyes and laughing. _Leave it to Dean to lighten the mood – again._

"Hey, if you're feeling up to it, maybe we can watch something we don't agree on later, eh? I'll let you pick, 'cause I picked last time."

"Sure." On your way out of the room, you stop to add, "Thanks, Dean. For everything."

"Any time, sweetheart – really. Now go get some sleep."

* * *

You're in your room one day, sitting on your bed reading, when Sam decides to confront you.

 _Well, so much for running._

He knocks on the door and asks, "Hey, you got a minute?"

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fu_ _—_

"Yeah, sure. What's up?"

When he comes into your room, you can immediately tell that he's nervous. He lingers by the doorway, and he does that thing where he awkwardly tucks his hands in his pockets, rocking subtly from his heels to the balls of his feet, and his eyebrows are raised halfway up his forehead – a few of his token nervous tells.

"Sit down. You're making me nervous, Sam," you say jokingly, but it comes out sounding a little desperate and panicky.

"Right, yeah. I'll do that." He pulls out the chair by your desk, turning it around to sit on it backwards, because he wants to come off looking cool and aloof, most likely. He's quiet for a few moments before he remembers that he instigated the conversation. "I'll be honest – I didn't really have any idea what I was going to say coming in here," he admits, laughing to himself. "I just wanted to resolve whatever this weirdness is between us," he says, gesturing between you.

 _Of course he just comes right out and says it._

You shoot for comedy, feigning your best clueless southern belle voice and asking, "Why, Mr. Winchester – whatever do you mean?"

He laughs, and you feel a small pang of accomplishment at that. "I think you know _exactly_ what I mean," he says, a little suggestively. _Is he joking now too?_

You consider what to say for an excruciatingly long six or seven seconds, the tension in the room freezing over into a block of ice – shatterproof. "I–I don't know what you want me to say, Sam. I'm embarrassed, I guess, and I'm sorry, for, you know…" Your voice and your hands shake violently. You take a few calming breaths. "I'll… I'll go if you want me to. I know this is weird, and I wouldn't blame you if, if—"

"Whoa, hold on," he says, moving from the desk chair to sit beside you on the bed. "Hey," he says, taking one of your quivering hands in his. _What is with these boys and their pervasive eye contact?_ "That's not what I mean. I guess I'm just asking – what you had in your dream, there – is that…" he trails off, his voice hesitant as he looks down at your hand in his, "…is that really something you want?"

You huff a single, pathetic little laugh, and in a small voice, you reply, "…d-do you really need to ask that question?"

And as you drag your eyes up to his face, you're surprised at the sight that you're met with: pure, unbridled adoration. His smile is warm, his eyes bright, and you can't help but feel like you're back in your fantasy. And for the first time in a while, you feel the desire to stay (among, you know, _other_ things).

And it's in that moment, as you feel your heart beating out of your chest, that he takes your face in his hands, looking at you like you're the most precious thing he has ever seen, and brings your lips to his. It feels nothing like your dream – no, because there, the action felt empty, and you knew that it wasn't real. But now – now, when he kisses you, it's full of everything that you've ever dreamt of and more (literally), and you can feel the passion radiating off of him in waves.

But as per usual, you can't help the doubt that crosses your mind. You pull away from him just the slightest bit, your hand on his cheek as you ask, "Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you doing this just because of what you saw in my dream? Like, because you're just trying to make me feel better?"

He should be offended that you'd even conceive of such a thing, but he's not. He gets it; it's a valid concern. "In a manner of speaking, sort of," he replies, completely genuine. "I've… I've wanted you for a long time. Ever since that night at the bar after that very first case, I think I really, you know, _saw_ you for the very first time, and I knew that I wanted you. But I kept it to myself. I fought it for so, so long, first because I didn't know if you would feel the same way, and then because I didn't want you to get hurt even more. But after nearly losing you, and after seeing that in your best, most ideal of circumstances, you and I were _engaged_ ," he pauses, huffing a laugh and smiling sweetly at you, "if us being together had anything to do with why you so desperately wanted to keep dreaming, well – I wanted you to know that you could have that here, too. Only if you truly wanted to, of course."

"Sam… we just kissed for the first time and now you're _proposing?!_ " You're purposely being facetious here, but it's the only response that you can manage when Sam is making confessions of love to you. You share a laugh, the awkwardness drawing it out longer than it should be. To stop yourself from laughing again, you bite your lip, wanting to reciprocate, but struggling to find the right words. "I…I think I understand. I know that you and Dean are trying to make the real world more like my fantasy, and I really appreciate the effort you guys are putting in to help me. I just – I guess I was just afraid that you were only playing along with the ruse so that I don't, you know—" you make a gesture, hoping that he gets where you're going with it.

He grabs your hand out of midair, stopping your wild gesturing to bring your hand to his lips and kiss it. "I want this and always have, but I've just been a total pansy. Even today, I was oscillating in the hallway outside of your bedroom for at least three hours, psyching myself out then working myself up to it again." You can't help but giggle. "Now, if you don't have any more concerns…" he trails off, kissing you again when you shake your head.

He pulls you closer to him, deepening the embrace as his tongue dances across your lips. You give back in kind, biting down on his bottom lip before granting him entrance and tangling your tongue with his. This elicits a deep, throaty groan from him, like he wasn't expecting you to be so forward. But you dive in wholeheartedly, and it's like a dam breaking – all of the want that you've ever bottled up for Sam Winchester comes back to you not in single spies, but in battalions, returning to hit you all at once. You move to straddle his lap, enjoying the way he growls under his breath as he wraps an arm around your waist, holding you to him. You tangle one hand into his hair and place the other by his ribcage, feeling like a different person when you trail kisses along his jaw, then down his neck, breathing heavily into the crook of his neck as you bite at him a little more than playfully. With his mouth unoccupied, he makes the most delicious sounds; he groans and whimpers, panting as he tries to maintain control of his faculties. You smile at the thought of being the thing that takes Sam Winchester apart.

His shirt is the first to go, and yours comes off soon thereafter (albeit reluctantly). You wait for the other shoe to drop as he takes you in, his gaze faltering for only a second before returning to its previous state of awe and desire. You wonder what he must see – or what he must be trying to look past, rather – when he regards the stories etched into the skin of your arms, your stomach, and your thighs. You wonder what he, a regular Adonis in a flannel and a Carhartt jacket, could possibly find appealing about the bruises on your legs, or the stretchmarks on your hips, or the 'little-bit-extra' on your build, or the mismatched, practical underwear you're wearing. He'd be blind not to notice the sudden loss of your confidence as you avert his gaze and await his rejection.

"Hey, quit it," he says, taking your face in his hands again. "I want to _look at you_ ," he says, though the passion in his eyes does nothing to hinder the fear of rejection in your heart. In a quick maneuver, he takes both of your hands in his, flipping you so that you're lying on your back as he pins your hands to the bed on either side of you. He looms over you, lacing your fingers in his. and you can't help but look a little shocked at his sudden display of dominance. "You can believe whatever you want – feel however you may feel. I know that nothing I say can change that. But I have one teensy, tiny little request," he says, placing a kiss to the skin right below your collarbone. "Please just don't be afraid of what I'm going to think."

You chuckle and shake your head, muttering, "Easier said than done, I'm afraid." He looks like your hottest wet dream with the way he hovers over you, biceps flexed, jeans riding low on his hips. But mostly, it's the way he looks down at you, reflecting the same desire that you're currently feeling, that makes it all feel so unreal.

"Then how about this: if you can't help but be afraid of what I'll think, I want you to tell me when it happens. Can you do that?" You nod and swallow hard – probably soaking your panties with the way he's snaking kisses across your body. "Now, what is it that you were afraid for me to see?"

"It feels a little shameful, now that it's a game," you say, afraid of what he'll think when you tell him what part makes you afraid of what he'll think. _Fuck. This is getting out of hand._ You steel yourself. _Big leagues, here, darling. Act like it, even if you don't belong._ "My body – m-my scars, I-I'm afraid of what… of what you see w-when you look at me, of h-how _repulsive_ I must be t-to… to someone who looks like _you_." _Nailed it._

He pauses where hovers just above your belly button when he looks at you, speechless for an interminable moment as he registers what you've just said. He knows that you're not fishing for compliments here – that you actually feel this way about yourself, and it makes him feel sick.

You're expecting him to either give you this long, ridiculous pep talk, or as the disaster center of your brain suspects, to wonder to himself, ' _what_ do _I see in her?_ ' before realizing that he's out of your league and deciding that you're not worth the effort. You _know_ that that's not going to happen, but you can't help expecting catastrophe with the kind of life that you live.

His speechlessness endures, and moments before you can officially conclude that he's regretting this whole endeavor, he shakes his head and chuckles inwardly. "Christ, you – you have no fucking clue, do you?"

You frown. "Apparently not."

He half-smile-half-frowns at you, coming face-to-face with you again and says, "You... you are such a beautiful, radiant person – sexy, badass, kind, selfless, clever – you have so much about you that makes you so incredibly beautiful, and you think that the physical flaws that tell your story, the things that make you human, are going to change the way that I feel about you?"

Your mind is screaming _wrong wrong wrong wrong WRONG!_ But something in your heart makes what he says feel genuine. Your eyes start to water, because it could all be false, but now there is no doubt in your mind that he believes what he said one hundred percent.

You're very grateful when he doesn't make you respond; you just kiss him as fiercely as you possibly can, and hopefully he understands just how much those words meant to you. It's rough and tender all at once, and the hard press of his lips to yours is him telling you how much he means it.

"And, uh, if you need any further evidence…" he mutters, less than an inch away from your lips as he leans his forehead against yours. He then guides one of your hands down to feel the bulge at the front of his pants. You press down of your own volition, making him moan and squirm beneath your grip.

With one last kiss, he begins trailing his mouth down your body again, this time stopping between your breasts, reaching to unclasp your bra and hesitating. "Tell me to stop, and I will," he practically grunts as he presses his forehead into the valley of your chest.

"Please dear _god_ don't stop," you say, and he grins like you've just sold your soul to him.

Within seconds, he has your bra off and discarded like a pro, using both hands to palm your bare chest before taking one nipple into his mouth. When he simultaneously sucks and tweaks the other nipple with his fingers, you whimper, causing him to moan obscenely. He calls your name, and as he moves to switch sides, he uses the breath in between to say, "You have no idea what you're doing to me right now, sweetheart," before getting back to work.

Once you're nice and stimulated, you find yourself groaning, _"pants,"_ like you're a fucking caveman. But he just smiles, content in knowing that he has reduced you to this breathless wanton goddess that lies before him. When he moves to your waistband, you say, "I-I meant yours, but both will do, I suppose." And he simply laughs. He removes your pants and underwear in one go, then stands from the bed to lock the door before removing his own. "Oh, _fuck,_ " you moan aloud, and he laughs. You can't hold back the dirty thoughts running through your head. _Because honestly, I was gravely mistaken before; Adonis' form is but a mere speck in the shadow of Sam Fucking Winchester's glorious physique._ The perfect v of his hips, with a perfect happy trail, leads down to the most perfectly beautiful cock you have ever seen. And you're not one to think of them as beautiful, per se – but you cannot help but admire the sheer… _perfection_ that is his body. "You are so fucking fine – I really hope you know that. Christ, I-I can't even look at you anymore. I'm just gonna turn around now, kay?"

Then, he smirks at you and practically pounces onto the bed, pinning you down again and making you both giggle. He tilts his head to the side a bit and bites his lip. "Oh? Then I can't help but wonder…" he says, his face millimeters from yours as he trails one hand down your side. His voice suddenly drops to a deep, gravelly pitch when he says, "how wet you must be for me." With his last words, his fingers part your folds, teasing you with light touches as he feels your wetness. "Oh, fuck," he grunts, closing his eyes and pressing his cock against your thigh. "As much as I want to taste you, tease you, draw this out – I'm not gonna last very long, sweetheart."

You can't speak, all of your attention suddenly directed at the two long, glorious fingers that he's sinking into you right now, and you moan in unison. He's so affected by this – by the sounds you make, by the way you feel beneath him. You cry out his name when his fingers graze your g-spot, making you see stars for one fleeting moment. He's toying with you, smiling. "You like that?" He grazes the spot again, making you moan. "God, the sounds you make, you're killing me."

In some sudden burst of coherency, you say, "T-The way you _talk_ , Sam. Fuck."

He grins, using his fingers to dance around your g-spot, his thumb finding and toying with your clit ever-so-gently. "Oh, I'm gonna have so much fun with this." Then, he leans in to whisper in your ear. "You like hearing me say what I'm gonna do to you? Hmm?" And suddenly, he's full-on assaulting your g-spot, using his thumb like he means it.

"Nngh… shit, oh, _oh_ – _fuck_ , Sam!" Your moans and whimpers grow louder as you start to squirm. He's giving you _exactly_ what you need to have a mind-bending orgasm, and as it builds slowly inside of you, Sam bites at your neck and mutters in your ear.

"I'm gonna take you apart, like this at first – with just my fingers working you toward the edge. You're so tight, and those sounds you're making – I'm so hard for you, babygirl," he groans, pressing his hard cock into your thigh again. You're close. "I'll fuck you nice and slow, deeper and harder than you've ever felt before – so good, sweetheart." He's mostly just muttering nonsense right now, but it's doing the trick.

"I'm c- _close,_ " you moan, feeling yourself start to contract around his fingers.

He feels it too, needing to restrain himself lest he come before you even get to touch him. "Fuck, yeah – that's it, let go. You're so good for me, sweetheart."

And it's like nothing you've ever felt before. You tense up, focus zooming in on the pleasure pulsing through you, radiating from the places where Sam is touching you. The moan you make is embarrassing in retrospect, however much it turns Sam on – but for now, in this moment, you couldn't care less. You feel it pulsing through every part of you, until it fizzles out, leaving you quivering with aftershocks as Sam skillfully works you through it.

He flops down onto the bed beside you, giving you a moment to catch your breath and collect yourself. Eventually, you say, "Shit, Sam. I never would've suspected you'd have a mouth like that." He laughs and you can feel his breath against your shoulder. "That was amazing," you say, turning onto your side to face him. "How will I ever repay you?" You take his hard, leaking cock in your hand and he groans something obscene, finally being touched skin-to-skin. "Sit up. Let me take care of you," you say, gesturing toward the headboard. He complies, surprised at the hint of a command in your voice.

You straddle his lap, your hands on his shoulders as you teasingly drag your wetness across his length. His hands immediately go to your hips, his grip just a little too tight. You kiss him now, slow, indulgent, lowering your heat over him again. One of his hands winds into your hair, tugging just the slightest bit to assert his dominance, and you bite his bottom lip playfully. With a single nod (mostly to yourself, you suppose), you reach for the drawer beside the bed, pulling a condom out of a box and holding it up in front of Sam's face as if you're about to do a fucking magic trick. You tear open the package with your teeth and roll it onto his length, and he kisses you hard to keep himself from making more noise.

But when you position yourself over him, readying yourself, you want nothing more than to see his face – to look into his eyes – when he enters you, and then again when he comes. You give him a questioning look and he smiles and nods – and with that, you slowly lower yourself onto his length.

As you sink down onto him, his eyes roll back in his head as he makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Even as you sweetly rest your forehead against his, mouth hanging agape as you savor the sensation of him finally being inside of you, filling you, he has to refrain from flipping you over, pinning you down, and fucking you like an animal. When he bottoms out, you look into his eyes, and as soon as you raise yourself up for the first time, you're kissing him hard and rough and sloppy, teeth clashing, nails digging in to skin. Graceless. Uncoordinated. You ride him like this, eventually grinding down onto his lap, breath labored from feeling so _full_. You make a high-pitched moan that definitely belongs in a porno, topping it off with a breathless, " _Sam._ "

In one quick movement, he holds you against him, keeping himself inside you as he flips you over onto the bed so that he's on top. He starts to thrust deep and slow, shutting his eyes tight and groaning, "Fuck, so tight, so perfect. You're fucking amazing – you hear me?"

You dig your nails into his back as he holds himself up over you, letting his head fall to rest against your shoulder. You whimper in his ear, " _Harder, Sammy_." He picks his head back up, a glint of something dark in his eyes as he accepts the challenge. He then slams into you, just holding you there and grinding his pelvis against yours. You cry out, back arching in pleasure. "Oh, fuck, fuck, _Sam_." And just like that, he draws another orgasm from you, holding that position for several seconds before pulling back and slamming into you hard again. He works you through your orgasm with a finger massaging your clit.

After your aftershocks have subsided, he leans back on his calves, dragging your hips up into his lap. He leans his head back, grunting as he speeds up; he's indulging in something purely animalistic here. He decides that it's not enough, that he wants you closer – so he scoops you up into his arms, bringing you upright into his lap. You wrap your legs around him, letting him move you and thrust up into you as he pleases; at this point, you're just along for the ride. He holds you close and you let your hands wander, exploring his body as he mouths and nips at your jaw and neck, breathing heavily into your skin. "Touch yourself. Come for me one last time," he says, panting as sweat drips down his forehead. You obey his order, rubbing yourself with two fingers and quickly bringing yourself to orgasm. "That's it, sweetheart. Oh god," he grunts, using your orgasm to chase his own release. "Oh, _oh_ , _fuck_ —" he babbles as he gets closer and closer to his peak. He hugs you close and you bite down into his shoulder. One last time, he pulls you down hard into his lap, pushing himself as deep inside of you as he can. And when he comes, it's with your name on his lips.

* * *

 **A/N:** I have a problem with stories that make the reader out to be this flawless, attractive, pretty person – I don't see myself that way and I know that I never will. It's a bit sappy and unrealistic when you're suddenly the most beautiful creature that the character has ever laid eyes on, and reading that in a fic really causes me to disconnect from the reader character. But there are other kinds of beauty: a beautiful heart, a beautiful mind, a beautiful soul. And I think that outer beauty can often be a reflection of that, too. I truly hope that others might feel the same way – for my sake, at the very least.

I haven't written smut in a while, so I know that I might be rusty; please let me know what you think!

(P.S. ten points to whoever spots the Shakespeare reference!)


	4. The Epilogue

Things are still weird.

But now, you have a kitten. Oh, and you have Sam Winchester, too.

Of course, it would be foolish to believe that you'd ever get a Happily Ever After. No hunter ever does. Even the djinn dream would've had its eventualities, however much you wanted to deny it at the time. Sheer happiness until the sweet release of death – what more could you ever want?

But in truth, you later realize – even if you _could_ have a Happily Ever After, you're not sure you'd be able to accept it. Not if you felt that you didn't deserve it. No, you wouldn't be content with it – you'd never be content. But that's just part of who you are. You live your life in total darkness, and while it can be cold and lonely at times, it's home to you – and sometimes, even the mere flicker of a match can feel like sunlight. And that flicker can illuminate your whole world just long enough to get you through another day.

But Sam and Dean are a type of light that defy everything you've ever known. Their light never dims, never falters – never burns out, as each match eventually does.

It's naïve to think that Sam's love could save you. But he definitely helps. You try so hard for him – to be better, to feel better. Maybe it's unhealthy to be doing it for anyone but yourself, but the next time that you need stitches, the next time that you're in too deep – the utter devastation in his eyes when he witnesses you destroying yourself is enough to give you pause. It doesn't stop you – no, nothing ever really could – but that pause gives you just enough time to consider the consequences that your reckless actions may yield. It's more motivation than you've ever had to stop before – and you soon find that days can pass, then weeks can pass, then months can pass without you taking your fury, your hatred out on your own body.

You find yourself supplementing it with other vices to help with the urges. You drink a bit more than you used to, but at least now you're not doing it alone – you have Dean by your side, drowning his sorrows alongside yours. You start to run when you're upset – sometimes alone, sometimes with Sam – and maybe you're still running from your problems, but at least now it counts as cardio. You go to the shooting range when you're angry, hurting inanimate targets instead of yourself. You savor the pain that comes from being wounded on hunts, because that pain at least _means_ something.

You cope. You relapse, as every addict is wont to do, and not a day goes by that you don't think about it, but you cope. And day by day, your life starts to feel just a little bit closer to the fantasy world that you were so very reluctant to give up. It takes you a very long time to understand that the only person whose love can save you is your own. And while you may think that you'll never feel that way about yourself, and while you may believe that you'll never truly feel whole, you take comfort in the thought that you are finally, _finally_ trying.

* * *

 _The End_

* * *

 **A/N:** If you've made it this far, thank you so very much for taking your time to read this. Any and all feedback is really sincerely appreciated – it means more to me than words could ever express.

I know that the ending isn't much in the way of a resolution, but I hope that it may give you some peace. Maybe I'm a cynic – maybe it's just that my own story hasn't found its Happily Ever After. But that doesn't mean that it's impossible – and if you are battling mental illness, I sorely hope that you may find yours someday soon.

Even if you can't see the light at the end of the tunnel, take a deep breath, be patient with yourself, and let your eyes adjust to the darkness; the light is there – I promise. And it's not nearly as far away as it may seem.


End file.
